


Method Acting

by ballpoint



Category: Marvel
Genre: 616 - Freeform, Henry Hellrung - Freeform, Kate Kildare - Freeform, M/M, Marvel - Freeform, The Order, tony stark - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-24
Updated: 2009-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There can only be one Tony Stark. Hellrung proves this fact at great cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Method Acting

**Author's Note:**

> British spellings, dick! Stark. Story follows Stark's first drinking arc: _Iron Man vol 1_: issues 120-128 (1979 early 80s), and Hellrung's potted account in _The Order_: issues 1-6. A big shout out to [](http://empty-splendor.livejournal.com/profile)[**empty_splendor**](http://empty-splendor.livejournal.com/). This story would be much lesser sans her input. Approx, 6,700 words

"You're going to love me, Henry," Kate Kildare said, leaning over her desk to look at her friend.

"I love you already," Henry said, as he reached to take a few fries from Kate's carton. "You allow me to eat fries."

That was no idle comment, especially since fries were swimming in carbs and sodium. If Hellrung's agent had seen him now, she'd have torn a strip off him.

"Not too much now, since you're working." Kate quipped, before noisily sipping from her soda, and putting it to one side.

Henry and Kate were both in her corner office located in West Hollywood.

Okay, it was not a corner office, not exactly. Despite Kate's best efforts, with reclaimed furniture sanded and hammered into shape, walls the colour of a desert sunset and artfully hung mirrors, it did not distract from the fact that the office was a reclaimed broom closet, and the sky light from above only underscored it as so. Today, they were 'doing lunch' which amounted to burgers from the local fast food joint (Henry had meat and vegetables, no bun, no fries), and Kate was having the works, as well as fries topped with ketchup.

"Yeah, yeah, it adds ten pounds to my frame. Especially with this series I'm doing..."

"Quite," Kate interjected, the smugness in her voice causing Henry to look up. He knew that look, the curve of lip, the studied casualness of her features.

Instinctively, Henry swallowed and shifted in his chair. He did not prep Kate, or try to pump her fill of information for two reasons. One, he respected her enough to allow her this moment of gravitas, of revelation. The second ? In this town everyone was an actor and waited for his cue.

Henry linked his fingers in his lap, waiting for Kate to say her lines, prepared to give her the appropriate response. He was ready to call up a memory of surprise, like the first time he went on a roller coaster, incredulity giving way to stunned pleasure.

Only to find that he did not need it.

"You're meeting Tony Stark."

Henry blinked once. Twice.

"Say what now?" Henry said, his voice a vibrato of disbelief, his eyes brown saucers of awe.

"Believe it," Kate said, her eyes shrewd behind glasses. "I know Stark's press agent through a friend of a friend. He's heard about your TV series, and he's invited you along to his next press conference-"

"Ah man," was all Henry could say, as laughter bubbled in his throat, happiness as effervescent champagne danced on his tongue, goose bumping his arms on this warm spring day. With a whoop that reverberated off the walls of Kate's tiny office, Henry launched himself out of his chair, swung Kate into arms and swept her into a dance worthy of _Oklahoma _ the musical.

"Henry!" Kate's protestations were weak over her breathless laughter, as she relished the sensation of Henry's body next her hers. His breath warm on her face, smelling of caramelised tomatoes, the tautness of his abdomen, the hard, lean muscles flexing and contracting with his movements as they moved around in the tight space.

Henry Hellrung was the only man who could make Kate shed her studied cynicism, and want to believe. Suddenly, Henry pushed her away from him, his eyes bright.

"Go on," he said, ushering her to her desk, where a goose neck lamp stood, its light shining on the remains of their late lunch. Apart from that, there was a name plate that said, K. Kildare, PRESS AGENT: HESTA PUBLIC RELATIONS, a container with sharpened pencil points upright, like arrows in a quiver. Then the sleek touch button phone and fax. Taking pride of place beside the lamp was a bobble head doll of former President Nixon. "Tap the Nix, ask him."

Kate laughed as she hitched her weight on the corner of the desk, being careful not to dislodge the remains of their food. With a flourish, she took a pencil from the container and then held its eraser against the bobble head of the doll for a moment.

"Nix says you'll be great, and remember, he's the Pride of Yorba."

Her heart bumped in that space under the ribs at Henry's smile then. It was unabashed, sincere. The smile had yet to become faux self-deprecating or plastic. Henry had yet to become a Hollywood bobble head.

"Tomorrow," Kate continued, willing her voice to be steady, low as she absently used her index finger to push her glasses on the bridge of her nose. "Tomorrow, he'll opening a new facility of Stark International in New York, three pm Central Time," Kate pointed a coral tipped finger at him, as she slid off her desk to stand in front of him, ready to lay down the law if need be. "Be there."

"Yes 'm." Henry tugged at an imaginary forelock as a symbol of his mock genuflection, as he back walked towards the door.

Kate rolled her eyes and huffed, "Actors."

Only to find herself being spun around, held by her shoulders, and feeling the warm weight of Henry's lips against hers. Before she could stop herself, Kate tentatively reached to touch his cheek, feeling the brush of hair under his nose, since Henry's nod to the role of playing Stark was the moustache.

"Kate the Great!" Henry yelled, before kissing her again. Then, on a yell, he was off like a shot, slamming the door behind him, leaving Kate just standing there.

Kate Kildare stood there, the colour blooming in her cheeks, not because of the warmth of the sun shining from the sky light; nor was it because the room was a tad warm. Henry Hellrung kissed her here, in her small office, the air heavy with the sugary - savoury notes of tomatoes and fries. For a brief moment, Kate opened her heart to the emotion, giggled at the headily drunken weight of it and suddenly felt thirteen. Henry had kissed her.

Then she shook her head, made a face at the mess of their leftover lunch on the desk, sighing at the fact that she had to air out her office before her other client came in.

_He'll be great_, she thought, tapping the bobble head with her index finger. Nix never steered her wrong yet.

 

**"He who never made a mistake, never made a discovery." Samuel Smiles**

The Nixon bobble head, Great Seer of All That Was Right and True, was correct about Henry's meeting with Tony Stark, but like all great seers, it tended to hand wave the details that made such experiences amazing.

Firstly, one did not just 'meet with' Tony Stark; the man made it an event. There was a driver to pick Henry up at his modest digs in Burbank, then spending the morning flying cross country, gawking at the interior of Stark's private jet. Although the menu had the promise of heaven as prepared by a cordon bleu chef, Henry shook his head, and asked for a drink instead.

"Scotch on the rocks?" The air hostess asked kindly.

"Yes, please." Henry said, holding the glass tightly in his fingers, as if it were a grail. His hands trembled slightly, causing the the ice in the glass to jingle, the liquid a transparent tawny gold, and innocent as iced tea. If this opportunity went well, this might be his big break. Not many actors made the jump from TV to movies successfully,but he was different. If things worked out, and he stuck with the show for one season, he'd have enough visibility to go on to bigger projects. If he could capture the essence of the man, Tony Stark, and get a couple good write ups in _TV Guide_ and _Entertainment_ he'd be on his way to bigger things, contributing to the tapestry of Hollywood history and its actors.

He'd just have to get into Stark's head, understand the man, his motivation. Yeah, yeah he could do that, but first-

Henry frowned at the glass. He was mostly a beer man himself, but according to the society pages of the New York Post, Tony Stark was known to drink scotch. So, he would too. Tentatively, Henry took a sip and frowned. It was not so bad, and as the warmth suffused his cheeks and blood, he literally felt himself relax.

Yes, he could do this. He would do this.

Buoyant on false courage, Henry ordered another glass.

 

**"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed."  
Carl Jung **

"- I gotta wire this to my editor. He's held page one just for Stark's announcement. What a trip."

"-it should be interesting to see what _Wall Street_ makes of Stark's unveiling. I know that Senator Horowitz is happy. SI in your backyard? Jobs, employment, another Senate win."

"- _Science Incorporated_ how do you do-?"

"- Anna Bryce is here tonight, on the hunt for Stark."

"Poor dear, won't she ever learn? Men don't get caught... unless they want to."

Henry Hellrung caught snatches of conversation as he stalked Stark grounds, staying in the shadows, absorbing the world that Stark inherited and made his own.

The press conference was over, and he had yet to meet Tony Stark himself. There was the crush of people in the ball room, all of the upper crust, and jostling for the right angle. Henry took in the tableau, as greedily as a student of human behaviour did. Here was the tinkle of laughter, the glint of jewellery as it caught the light when people moved. Acquaintances had the odd European way of kissing the air beside each cheek when greeting each other. Starched waiters glided among the crowds, laden with silver trays of champagne flute and finger foods. There was the woman who took a flute of sparkling something, held it to her lips but did not sip. There was the man who had his features frozen into a rictus of a smile, head inclined sideways as he listened to his companion babble on.

Amused, Henry shook his head. Self important windbags were everywhere. In Hollywood, you could not shift without bumping into ten of them. Or having at least one of them pawing at your arm, or other intimate body parts. At this thought, Henry pulled a face, and made to just drift though the currents of the crowd, with an eye to getting on the balcony, just so he could get some air, away from the cloying and clashing notes of various perfumes.

Unheeded, Henry finally got to the balcony, only to draw short at the scene before him.

Tony Stark was already on the balcony, drink in hand, his eyes focused on the blonde goddess standing before him, her body sheathed in a dress that reminded Henry of the glittery pink nail polish Kate sometimes wore on her toenails.

"You said you'd call," the woman pouted, making Henry think of the Hollywood leads he had the misfortune of working with (he had small roles in big movies). The actors who wanted the best lines, who stayed in their trailers at the merest hint of a slight.

Henry slid deeper into the shadows, taking the opportunity to get a good look at the man he was supposed to play.

Tony Stark was movie star handsome, he had to admit. The pictures of him in various media that catalogued his exploits only hinted at the stormy blue in his eyes, the deep blue black of thick hair that was prone to curl if it grew long enough. Hence the clever hair cut that kept his hair in a way that only hinted at the wave. Tony Stark was lean, but you got the feeling that his body was put through more than the rigours of the occasional squash game. His grooming was immaculate, and he had an enviable awareness of self that Henry recognised.

Honestly? Tony Stark was more than he expected. Dressed in a sleek suit that was more European than American - a slimmer cut along the frame, and narrower lapels than its American counterpart, it made him stand out; a samurai blade in a sea of kitchen knives.

"I know, Margo," Tony said, voice as smooth as the lines of his bespoke suit, his eyes aglow with amusement in the dim lighting. "I've been busy, forgive?" he crooned, his fingers dancing on the nape of her neck.

"Oh, I don't know," Margo drawled, her mouth a glossy _moue_ of doubt. "I really shouldn't let you off the hook, Tony," she simpered.

Henry shook his head, because as sure as the sky was blue, Stark would not be getting the brush off from her at all.

"Thank you, owe you," Tony leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. "I'm in your debt, let me make it up to you with dinner and _Turandot_. My treat, say next Tuesday?"

"Call my social secretary, darling." Margo smiled, tossing her hair behind her shoulders. It was a very practised move. Henry noted the languid wave of her hand as it skimmed her locks, the shrug of creamy shoulder, and the smouldering look underneath the flutter of eye lashes. "I have to be in Paris tomorrow," she continued, "the Fall shows, you know what it's like."

"Another day at the salt mines," Tony allowed his hand to skim her arm before he pulled away, his voice warm with sympathy. "Go, I'll wait with baited breath until you come back."

With a giggle, Margo glided away, grinning like the cat who got the canary, leaving the smell of phantom roses in her trail.

Henry shook his head at the shallowness of it, and almost smiled at the irony. He was an actor in Hollywood, it was not as if he were performing Harold Pinter compositions on the West End.

"Henry Hellrung," Tony Stark greeted, his gaze frank and accessing. Gone were the tones of penitence used to keep his lady acquaintance sweet. In their place was a brisk, business like tone.

Mano y mano.

Fair enough, Henry mused. They did not know each other, and Henry assumed the pose.

"Mr Stark," he began, ready to audition at the drop of a dime (because an actor's life was a series of auditions). "Thank you for meeting with me and-"

"Tch," Stark waved Henry's speech away, having the air of a casting agent who really was not interested in hearing the actor reading the part as yet. Not before seeing if he passed muster first. Henry had spent the last decade in Hollywood waiting for his big break, and knew the process. You hurried up to wait, and acted as if you had no other care in the world but being here, in this moment at this time.

Henry stood there on the balcony, face relaxed into a smile, standing just so, as Tony circled him, rather like a shark circling a raft, gauging the vulnerabilities of his prey before he struck. Or, Henry thought, as Tony tapped his fingers against his chin in deep contemplation, as if he were looking at new technology.

"Shoddy tailoring," Tony mused aloud. "We'll have to do something about that. Also, your hair colour is off. What's your natural hair colour again?"

"Dark brown," Henry said, caught off guard at Tony's increasingly intense regard. He got over it quickly though, making a note of how Stark's eyes narrowed in concentration. One hand in his pocket, the other in use as Tony rested a finger against his chin in deep thought.

"Henry Hellrung," Stark said at last. "My press agent was right, the resemblance is there, although you might have to trim your moustache here-" Henry felt Stark's finger ghosting along the side of his mouth. Stark was close enough for Henry to feel the heat radiating of the other man's body, a pleasant counterpart to the cool night, and unlike the other males in this place, Stark's cologne was subtle. Foreign. Something along the lines of lemons, bay leaves and the sea. "Too long and a tad too thick," he finished. Then took a step back.

"You will do," Tony said.

Say what now? Henry wanted to say, but he was already noting Tony's speech patterns. His English was interesting, as if he'd learnt it as a first language, but moved around when he was young, so his accent was not necessarily American, but not European either. It was fluent, but restrained enough to be on this side of formal.

"Sorry, Mr Stark?" Henry found himself saying, thrilled at the way how Stark's eyes narrowed with interest. He got Tony's voice pitch perfect, one octave lower than his, moving from mid western to a distinct hybrid East-Coast/mid Atlantic tone.

Tony smiled, a genuine one that lit his eyes, and warmed his face as he companionably threw an arm around Henry's shoulders. "Call me Tony," he said. "Do you like sushi?"

"Yeah, I guess," Henry said, relieved that he passed whatever audition Tony held just now on the balcony.

"Excellent, there's is fantastic sushi place in Malibu. I keep meaning to buy property out there, so I can be near to great sushi."

"Oh, okay. Yeah." Henry said, before the situation hit him. They were in New York, and going to Malibu for sushi?

"- so can I?"

"Excuse me?"

"-call you H- or Hank?"

"Sure," Henry said, finding himself surprised and charmed at Tony Stark's warmth. For this opportunity, Tony could have called him Petunia.

 

**"Eventually we will find (mostly in retrospect, of course) that we can be very grateful to those people who have made life most difficult for us."**

**-Ayya Khema**

 

Henry Hellrung hated Tony Stark at times.

The arrogant, unsympathetic, sanctimonious, self centred son of a bitch.

On certain days, these traits were his good points.

Of course, since he was Tony Stark - Henry had the Armani suit, kid loafers by bally of Switzerland to prove it, complete with a hundred dollar hair cut - it meant that he hated himself too. At times.

"Was that necessary?" Henry found himself snapping at the man, after he seen Tony Stark metaphorically cut his engineer to pieces over a perceived design flaw.

Belatedly, Henry knew that he was overstepping his bounds, seeing that he should not have been in the meeting and all.

Now, they were in the back-seat of Tony's limo, a cool cocoon on their way to Stark's house in Long Island, where a party might or might not be happening.

Depending on how Stark felt.

"Bernstein overlooked a simple flaw," Tony said, sipping from a glass of scotch. "When the designs go out, they go out under the name of Stark International," Tony's voice was tight, clipped. "I might not have wanted Stark International at first," he went on, "but for all intents and purposes, it's mine, Hank. If you don't understand that-" there was a flash of anger that banked in his eyes, just then. "You don't understand me."

For a brief moment, there was a humming silence in the vehicle as brown eyes glared at blue.

Then Henry found himself backing down, because he understood. Whatever cause Tony Stark aligned himself to, no matter how dismal, he threw his whole being into it. It was a trait that Henry had to admire, Tony's resoluteness in the face of whatever he put his mind to.

"I'm sorry," Henry said, meaning it. "I know it's been a stressful time for you, with the rumours of co-operate takeovers and all. "

Something flickered in Tony's eyes, causing Henry to wonder at the veracity of the rumours. Probably they -

"Hey now," Henry said, placing his hand over Tony's as the other man made to reach for the Scotch bottle in the space between them. He was surprised to feel the tension of Tony's forearm muscles under the palm of his hand. Perhaps, there was some truth to the rumours of SHIELD and Stark International after all.

"Go easy," Henry soothed. "It's been what? The third glass in twenty minutes? You want to slow that down with some water or something?"

Henry found himself at the receiving end of a very long, bland look. Not many people actually said no to Stark, Henry thought.

"Or," Tony said, voice reasonable. "You can share the bottle with me."

Somehow, that suggestion made sense only when Stark said it. "Just one drink," Henry smiled, glad that the tension passed, and took the glass that Tony offered him.

"Of course," Tony said. "Just one."

 

**"Seduction is always more singular and sublime than sex and it commands the higher price" Anon**

 

The lure began with women.

The splay of them, the multitudes.

It started on a Friday, when Stark's private jet landed at LAX, the scene the property that he bought in Malibu. Near that sushi place he spoke about.

"For investment purposes," Stark explained, his arm now a comforting weight around Henry's shoulders, his breath moist and laced with the sweet, yet oddly anti-sceptic smell of alcohol.

Henry looked at the view spread before him, the grid of lights below them, the sea an inky undulating sheet rustling against the purple black of the sky. In California, the lights never went out, the parties never stopped.

They cut a swath through women, starting with orgies, as Henry felt the snug, moist heat of a mouth around his length, the sheet of hair on his thighs. The women those nights were normally named after stones (Amber, Jade, Ruby), varying shades of blonde, insensate and dumb with liquor and other substances. It did not matter, as long as their eyes met across the room, partners in crime.

Eventually, they grew bored of the throes of women, and focused on one. Probably an actress, or an It girl. It did not matter. What mattered was the seduction: lunch at the Ivy, dinner at Spago. The nightcap was at Stark's Malibu apartment, the girl an intermediary for what they might want to do to each other. Tony biting the pad of her thumb, his eyes hot, an intense Bunsen flame of blue, always on Henry, never on the girl.

Henry would suppress his shiver, not daring to think about that mouth on him.

Eventually, they got rid of the girl, plied her with jewellery and alcohol, poured her into the back of a cab to go to her place. She mollified by the fact that for a day, her reputation was linked to a billionaire and an actor who happened to party together.

In retrospect, Henry wondered how he never saw it coming.

How he never knew how this play would end, his body pressed against the expanse of glass in Tony's bedroom, Tony's teeth scraping against Adam's apple, his fingers snagging at Henry's shirt, the rip of silk loud in the quiet.

"Careful," Henry breathed, feeling the waistband of his dress pants slackening and Tony's hand, warm and sure on him. "That _rag_ was a Pierre Cardin shirt. My best one. _Jesus_, do that again."

"I'll buy you a new one," Tony breathed at the shell of Henry's ear. "Or a gross of new ones."

By this time, Henry was far gone, his body on fire from Tony's touch and eyes.

He wondered how he never saw it coming.

 

**"Delay is the deadliest form of denial."**

"Henry," Kate said, voice frigid tones of censure. "You haven't been - oh!"

Henry opened one bleary eye, and found himself at the end of a cool, blue stare behind heavy, square glasses.

Kate had let herself into his apartment with her key, and found Henry in bed. Naked.

"Kate," Henry swallowed, his throat felt like sandpaper - or the lining of a bird's cage. Yuck. He dragged the bed covers over his eyes, wanting to howl in pain at the blades of light coming through the Venetian blinds.

Stinking California sunshine.

"Kate," Henry croaked.

"I'll wait in the kitchen," Kate said, looking tidy and annoyed in a smart, deep blue skirt suit.

 

"Jesus, Henry," Kate ploughed into him as soon as he stepped into the kitchen- cum- dining room, pathetically garbling his thanks as he inhaled the cup of filtered coffee. He had to sit down, and did, almost tumbling off the chair onto the floor. That would not have been a good look.

"I came over as soon as I heard," Kate began, her voice stern. "About being drunk at work? I thought," Kate said, catching herself lest she went into mid shriek. "I thought that you had it under control, Henry."

"I do," Henry mumbled, noisily sipping at his coffee. "It's just a couple days suspension, it means nothing. _Nothing_."

"It's everything!" Kate snapped. "You _know_ how small Hollywood is. Once you get a rep for being difficult, that's it. It affects your insurance, your Q rating-"

"They can't fire me," Henry waved Kate's concerns away as he sipped his coffee, not caring if it scalded his tongue. Sobriety was a drink away. "Besides, I'm handling it-"

"Like how Stark's handling it? If you believe the rumours, his company is under siege. He goes missing for days, comes back all beaten up-"

"Maybe he's Iron Man," Henry mused, tilting his cup .

"Great, it isn't bad enough that you're drunk, you're obnoxious as well." Kate scoffed, folding her arms under her breasts. "That's the plot of your show, not real life."

Henry only rolled a shoulder in response. In the show, the premise was that Tony Stark was a libertine by day, and a Superhero when the need arose. "It could happen."

"Stark would need a soul," Kate said. "The only thing he's liberating are women from their panties, and he has you going along with his gag."

"Hey now," Henry said, feeling the need to defend his friend. "Tony Stark isn't all that bad. Really. He's just... complicated, that's all-"

"Whatever, Henry." Kate said, unfolding her arms to sit at the chair across from Henry. She reached for his cup, tasting coffee and him. Made a face, at finding it to be lukewarm, she pushed the cup towards Henry.

"Henry," Kate started again, her voice warmer this time, coaxing even. Henry took her in, her dark eyebrows and lashes, bottle blonde hair. On anyone else, the look might have been trashy, but it suited her.

"As your press agent," she began. "I can only spin so much. Henry, promise me," she said, and Henry felt her fingers along his forearm. Long, ring-less fingers, tipped with peach nails. "Promise me that you'll keep a low profile for the next couple of weeks. _Promise me_."

Henry nodded, before scrubbing his face with his hands.

"I will," he said. "I promise."

Kate's eyes grew soft at that promise, at the way he smiled at her.

"Okay, three things," she said, her voice business like. "Do you need help, was last night's date of legal consenting age, and are the rumours of Stark and yourself true?"

"No, yes and no." Henry said.

 

**"The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing... not healing, not curing... that is a friend who cares." Henri Nouwen**

 

The last night they spent together, there were no women, no pretence of what this was.

The scene took place at the house in Malibu, started from the balcony, where bottles of wine and whiskey marred the pristine lines. The overturned bottle, its contents soaking the carpet in the passage way. There were discarded loafers made of kidskin at the base of stairs, one men's jacket crumpled at the doorway. The rest of silk-blend suits and snowy white shirts shed on the thick cream carpet.

Henry was on the bed, underneath Tony Stark; their bodies sheeted with sweat, the air redolent with perspiration, musky notes of sex and undercurrent of violence at every action. The scrape of scratches on Tony's shoulders, the sobs of Henry underneath him as Tony held him down and fucked him.

Henry welcomed the pain of it, as he felt himself being _used_ as Tony pummelled into him, saw the strain of muscles as Stark's arms worked to keep him in place, veins in sharp relief against his biceps, sweat running from his face in rivulets, dripping into and stinging Henry's eyes. He did not care. He was numb, his life was over. He was drunk on whiskey, wine and regret. He deserved to burn, to be destroyed, to be battered into the ground, and no one understood more than Tony Stark, because at times, he hated himself to the point of self destruction too.

It also helped that Tony Stark knew the myriad permutations of sex. From humiliation to pain. Denial of pleasure.

Henry pleaded to be touched, to have Tony's hand warm on him, stroking him.

Knowing that Tony would not. Accepting that he himself could not, his own arms tied to the bed posts, with their silk ties.

He didn't deserve better than his arse being pounded, his arms close to being wrenched out of their sockets with each stroke, and Henry gave himself over to the pain, using each shard of it to remember the events of the past three days. Each ice pick of stroke a ripple through the blackouts of memory.

\- When he was told that his contract would not be renewed.

\- His agent sent him a letter via special delivery, terminating her services forthwith. Henry felt the frail edges of the glass in his hands give way, the simultaneous burn and chill of the alcohol as it seeped into his cuts, the blood pumping from his hand on to the white carpet in his living room.

\- Henry on set, literally stopping in mid-line, breaking the scene.

"Cut! Cut!" the director yelled as Henry reached for a bottle of Pinot Gringo and started drinking.

"I can't work like this!" There was a shout, then the rustle of paper as loud wind through a forest of dry leaves, filling Henry's vision in white, as he sucked on the bottle, like a pup on its mother's teat.

\- Stumbling off the set of Universal Studios, leaving his (Stark's) New York offices (a mock up), the only thing that prevented him from falling were the two guards who escorted him out, pass the gates, into the glare of paparazzi, the pop of light bulbs blinding him, as he threw up an arm to shield his eyes.

\- Kate's eyes were huge and dark as she looked up at him. "I can't save you. I can't spin it for you Henry. Short of Rumpelstiltskin, no-one can spin this straw into gold."

Her office was bigger, an actual corner office. No more broom closets. Although she had the space now, Henry could not move, much less dance.

"I can't help you, Henry," Kate shook her head. "Not unless you admit you have a problem."

"I don't!" Henry snapped, punching his bandaged fist at the wall, feeling slightly ashamed when Kate flinched.

Then, desperate, turning to Tony for help. Help in the form of whiskey, of Tony's mouth on his as soon as the door closed behind them.

Despair, what with his reality giving way underneath him like black ice, and Henry was benumbed. This is what he needed, this is what they were. No women with sly grins and speculative gazes. Just them, and alcohol.

Henry wanted - needed - to feel, and Tony obliged, positioning him on the bed, lashing his wrists to the bed head with silk ties, before taking Henry into his mouth, sucking and teasing him into attention - not completion- and prepared him with clever fingers and slickness.

Henry was open, his body one throbbing muscle of need, a boil to be lanced, something rotting in him to be expelled.

Tony's hand was on Henry's cock now, fingers slick with lube and Henry's own discharge, stroking, slowly drawing Henry's orgasm from the base of his spine, the pain in his arms.

Pleasure was never so painful. Pain was never so cleansing.

A harsh sob in his ear, Tony's body shuddering between Henry's thighs, the pressure of their bodies on Henry's arms, and before he could beg, Tony loosened the bounds with a tug, and Henry's arms were leaden weights, and useless. His body trembled with the after shocks of his orgasm, and Henry could not move. Did not speak. His body shivered from the sudden chill in the room. His numbness was wearing off, emotion hitting him at odd angles, and reaction flooded through him, sharp and unrelenting. Henry felt the sting of tears in his eyes, the pressure in his throat.

Tony drew Henry to him, and if he felt Henry's tears on his neck, or heard the sobs, he never said a word.

 

**"I should like you to consider this letter as a resignation; I want to resign as one of your most studious and faithful admirers." Delmore Schwartz**

 

"You know, when I came to Hollywood all those years ago, I thought I'd be contributing to its history. To take my place with the Newmans, Pacinos, De Niros, Grants of this world."

It was late afternoon, and Henry was dressed in his clothes from the night before; white dress shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to elbows. Dark trousers, and shoes without socks. Tony's nod to the afternoon was a pair of sweat pants with a white, short-sleeved under shirt.

Both of the men were seated at the patio, beside the pool, in the shade of the built in parasol of the table.

The housekeeper prepared a simple lunch of cold cut meats, vegetables, fruit and juice in an insulated cooler. Knowing her employer's tastes, there was an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker Black.

"It isn't over," Tony said, chewing a slice of pineapple, staring at Henry long and hard. "You can go under for a bit. Then come back. Reinvent yourself."

With a sad smile, Henry shook his head. He knew what Stark was looking at. Henry's hair was back to dark brown, the blue-black rinse gone. This morning, he got up, looked at himself in the mirror, and shaved.

"No," Henry said, scrubbing his face with his hands. "No, it's just that-" he broke off, laughing helplessly, pushing himself from his chair, moving to the balcony, looking at the view.

"I spent all this time waiting tables, doing commercials for shampoo, and dog food. I was waiting... waiting for the right opportunity to shine, and-" Henry turned to face Tony, raising his hands to shoulder level before dropping them helplessly at his sides. "I only got tapped because I had the dumb luck to look like you." Henry tried for humour, but the bitterness came through. "It's over. I coulda been a contenda."

Henry was not surprised when Tony left his chair to stand beside him. Henry noted that even though Tony was in the sun for less an hour, his skin was already turning a pale gold. The bastard even tanned well.

"Drink?" Tony offered.

"No," Henry shook his head, and Tony did not seem surprised at his answer. "Not any more."

"You're saying?"

"It's over. Whatever this-" Henry waved a hand, the gesture encompassing both of them, "-is. I can't be a part of the crazy life any more. The running away from myself. I can't be the prisoner of expectations... I don't know how you do it, Tony," Henry finished, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks.

"Do what?" Tony asked as he leaned against the railing beside Henry, his voice deceptively light. "Be Tony Stark? It might have been... fated."

Henry laughed, then grew sobered as he looked at Tony Stark. Despite the hard partying he did, his looks were still darkly handsome, still unaffected. He looked none the worse from their drunken tryst of the night before.

"I'm quitting cold turkey," Henry decided on the spot. "I can't be you. Not any more. I can't be billionaire industrialist slash business man, slash ladies man -"

"Slash international man of mystery," Tony interjected, deadpan.

"You aren't really Iron Man, are you?"

Tony gave him one of those long, bland looks.

"I thought not," Henry said, shaking his head. "I'm going to call a cab and then go."

"Wait, you can use my driver," Tony said. "Or the Corvette's in the garage..."

"No," Henry reached out to touch Tony on his shoulder. "You've done enough. I need to do this alone."

Tony nodded, "Good luck," he said, offering Henry his hand. Henry shook it with his good hand, feeling the strength there and found himself saying, "We can do this together, you know," Henry started. "If you ever think you need help-"

Tony shook his head, his face a neutral mask. "I'm fine, thank you."

The denial was glib and futile. Both men knew that.

"If you ever need help, you know where to find me."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Now that Henry was disconnected from Stark's head, he did not know if he was lying or not.

 

**"Never let go of hope. One day you will see that it all has finally come together. What you have always wished for has finally come to be. You will look back and laugh at what has passed and you will ask yourself... 'How did I get through all of that?"**

 

It was evening, and Kate Kildare was putting the last of her files in the 'to do' box for tomorrow.

Distracted, she looked at her watch. It was late, and Kate was torn between ordering in for Chinese, or swinging by the health food market and pick up some bread, olives and baklava. Hmmm, no probably not baklava. She had to go to her clients première next week. So, no carbs then, just three days of water.

The sharp rap at the door tore her from her thoughts, and Kate contemplated ignoring it, because she knew who it was at the other side of the door.

"Listen Stewart," Kate fumed as she stalked across the room, yanking the door open. "Until you come clean with me, I cannot-_Henry_?"

Henry Hellrung was leaning heavily in her doorway, as vital as life. He was dishevelled, five o clock shadow, dark suit with a torn and tattered white shirt underneath.

"Kate," Henry said, one hand out as if he were begging for alms. "Help me, please."

Dry eyed, she nodded, pulling the door wider so he had space to pass. She did not flinch from the smell, because Henry was sober. Tired, glassy eyed, but sober.

"Go and bathe," Kate said, voice brisk. "There's a bathroom to the left of the passage."

The look in Henry's eyes was pathetically grateful. "I- I haven't had a drink in two days," he said. "But I-I need help."

"Just go, bathe. We'll speak soon."

Henry shambled down the passage, and Kate followed closely, just in case.

Soon, Henry was safely in the bathroom, and Kate rested her forehead against the closed door, hearing the rustle and zips as he shrugged out of his clothing. The rush of the water from the shower as it hit the tiles and his body. There was the peppermint smell of her shower gel as its scent bloomed in the air. Only then did Kate take off her glasses, placed her palm flat against the door and allowed herself the luxury of tears.

Although Henry and herself will never be what she might have wanted them to be, Henry was home.

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and keeping her sniffles under control, she went to the front of her office, latched the door then made her way to her desk. While there, she flipped though The LA Times to its social pages. The paper was dated two days ago, and there was Tony Stark, rakish as ever, with his arm draped around a statuesque red head, and a drink in the other hand.

Kate could not bring herself to care for another lost soul, because the man she loved finally came home.

Fin.


End file.
